Pinky Promises
by dolphinsramazing
Summary: Tiva tag to 9x20 The Missionary Position, mostly adhering to current canon


He is shifting restlessly on the god-awful pull out couch at the Hotel Hermosa, which isn't quite so beautiful after all. But safety is of paramount concern, he reminds himself, even as the back of his mind nags him as to otherwise. Getting shot at is old hat for him; he knew the second he accepted his first badge, shiny and glinting in the Peoria sunlight, that the Glock in his hand would become an integral piece in the puzzle of his survival. He can still wield his weapon with deadly accuracy; that doesn't worry him. It's the fact that more and more he's let his emotions run wild, dictate his actions. He'll never admit it (he barely can admit it to himself), but when those gun-toting cartel lackeys pointed the muzzle out the window, his first thought was not of his own protection, but hers. He dove on top of Castro, because she was his responsibility, but every ounce of his being wanted to be shielding Ziva from the gunfire. Because it's been well proven that he can't live without her: he can't do this, whatever it is they do, without her.

And as if she's perfectly synched to his thoughts, sleep-deprived and glassy-eyed, she stumbles in and settles herself down on the corner of the couch-bed furthest away from him. Her hair is mussed and disheveled; the humidity of the Colombian air has restored it to its naturally wildly curly state. Face devoid of makeup, he cannot help but be astonished, every time, at how beautiful she is with her smoldering brown eyes, pronounced cheekbones, and rosebud lips.

"I am tired of being lied to," she proclaims, her eyes fixed on the plain wall ahead of her. She slowly turns her head towards him, a tear glistening in the corner of her eye. He interlocks gazes with her, and tries fervently to keep the sympathy out of his eyes. But he knows it's in vain; they both have an uncanny knack for speaking with their eyes, so to speak. Their eyes speak the God's honest truth when their lips are not held to such high standards.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" She's indignant as she posits the question.

He wants to spill his heart out to her: that he'll never lie to her, at least never again, not even to protect her, because she's stronger than that, and their partnership and friendship is founded on equality, reciprocity. That she doesn't deserve to be lied to or manipulated because she's wonderful and incredible and everything anyone could ever ask for. That he loves her, and wants to be with her forever. But as the words tease on the tip of his tongue, he can't seem to let them go.

And in an instant, he knows why. They're not ready yet; it's too soon after Ray and Wendy and EJ and everything else that's been thrown their way in the past few years. He's always been broken. Maybe he was born that way, flawed and imperfect, and the gaping hole was simply broadened by neglect and hurt and ubiquitous death so it became a chasm. He's never thought himself to be enough, to be worthy of happiness. Because he's always been so close to all those things that are supposed to "complete" his life, and then they slip from his grasp, all his Wendys and Jeannes. But he's finally got closure from that chapter of his life when he reconnected with Wendy. The carnal attraction was still there, no doubt, but the butterflies he used to feel around her, they're gone. And when she tells him, true or not, that it wasn't him, it was never him, it was her, he finally believes her. That it's not entirely his fault she left him, that his marriage to his job didn't preclude his marriage to her. And maybe, just maybe, he can fill both cups now, and that realization tells him he's so close. He's so close to being ready to have her, to tell her, to finally fulfill that last item on his bucket list.

As he's sitting there musing his little heart away, she's still staring at him, an expression of perplexity drifting across her face. "Tony!" she admonishes, and simple, beautiful, little thing that it is, he loves the way she says his name, even when she's angry at him, or pretending to be. It's imbued with an air of seduction, of perceived intimacy that creeps into her voice less and less. Because now, more and more, she's honest with him, and he with her, and doesn't need to use the guise of physicality, of a word whispered breathlessly into an ear, to debase a point.

Somehow, as he's been painfully lost in his own swirling thoughts, she's cosied up next to him, one hand absently twirling a curl. He lifts his downcast eyes and softly cups her face in his hand. She instantly buckles; regardless of the lies she tells him, he knows that since Somalia, she still bristles at contact she doesn't initiate. But in a second, she relaxes under his touch, and her eyes acquire that expectant look, when she thinks he's going to give her the world and he always falls far short of her hopes.

He brushes his thumb against her cheekbone, and opens his mouth to speak. "She's just trying to protect you. We all are." he says, and the second the words leave his lips he knows it's the wrong thing to say. Because even though this Ziva is softer around the edges, danger has sharpened her corners. And she's never needed protection, or wanted it. Her independence is one thing she's been able to cling to fiercely through churning seas.

"I am just afraid I am going to lose her. And if she is gone, we are all as good as dead. I cannot afford to lose her, or to lose you," she whispers through a veil of tears, the last two words slipping off her tongue like a waterfall.

He shivers; the doors to the balcony have flown open, and a gust of wind whips against his skin. Instinctively, he pulls her closer to him, the wetness of her tears, hard fought against, seeping into his thin cotton shirt. He could simply let the subject drop, pretend it was a mere slip of the tongue. But he also realizes that a door has been opened, and he hates to chalk this up to another missed opportunity.

Wiping the tracks of tears from her cheeks, his voice cracks. "I can't guarantee anything, Zi, but I can promise you I'll fight as hard as I can to stay alive. For you. " And they're instantly catapulted back to a time that seems like a lifetime ago that he said those very words, when anger burned in her eyes and shame dwelled in his, looking out over the Israeli desert.

"But of course you have to keep up your end of the bargain. Promise to fight?" he asks, his voice returning to a normal decibel, even though the candor of this conversation, not shrouded in guises of other people's issues, is nowhere on the normal spectrum.

"I promise to never give up," she affirms, and extends her pinky in an adorably child-like gesture. All the while feeling like a thirteen year old girl at a sleepover, he interlocks his with hers and marvels at how well they fit together. He takes her entire hand, so small next to his, and wraps his fingers around hers, squeezing softly. He presses his lips to it, ignoring the blatant expression of shock playing across her face, and places it back in her lap with the utmost tenderness. He rubs circles across her back, capitalizing on the fact that she's letting him be with her, close to her, nary a fight. That's the last thing he remembers about that night.

And when the piercing rays of dawn permeate their room, they wake up to find themselves entangled: his arms around her waist, her face buried in his chest. They're not so quick to let go, to let this moment end. Because leaving home always has an odd way of stripping them of their pretenses and letting them just be together, in the most innocent of ways. He'll miss that most of all when they have to return to reality; but first, they have a mystery to solve, a life to save. And he'll be damned if he doesn't bring himself, and Castro, and Ziva, and himself, back home at the end of the day.


End file.
